Doodling...

Politics? Hee Haw

When my buddy Chuck Banner talked me into getting started on a “substack” three months ago I had no idea what one of those was. He thought it would be good to get into the whole ‘monetizing’ of this monster called the internet and social media. And he thought I had enough words and such to be able to carry a weekly post.

See, I had written a thing I called “In Conclusion” meant for my children, to relate stories from my father, the family, and myself to leave evidence that we existed and to pass on any worthwhile memories. So I took the least personal parts of the ‘memoir’ and started serializing them, with Chuck and eventually his lovely wife, Lauren, encouraging and giving helpful critique.

I decided I would try and make the posts entertaining, that is, not embroiling myself in the Tar Baby that is our current political dilemma. There’s lots of very bright folks who have their points of view and their own drums to beat. And maybe they are making money. Good for them.

I have four “Paid Subscribers” and I know each of them. Thank you.

But the truth is I have no idea if there is any value at all to what I post, more noise among all the noise, my own cacophony amongst the static and babbling. I suppose the Paid Subscribers are simply being kind.

As for politics, I have a thought or two, because life is that and affects us whether we care or not.

I will start with a smart-ass bit from “In Conclusion” in regard to that.

Politics

It is the dirty, and often deadly serious sport of getting what you want from the public trough. There can’t be any honest politicians, the idea is oxymoronic. There may be those who are honorable people but the process of fighting for their cause is paved with compromise, back door dealing, double crossing, bribery, and cast aside souls.

I have lived now long enough to have been touched by two extreme authoritarian eras, one that ended not long after I was born, and one that is beginning at the end of my life.

Hitler ended in an underground cave, dead by his own hand. Mussolini had been hanged upside down from a gas station in Rome not so long before. Would that I live to see what fate befalls the new mad man.

Because now another insane, pus-brained megalomaniac has convinced much of his pale skinned tribe and a few other idiots that he is the destiny of the country! As I write, June, 11^th, 2025, the great white dope is using his power to foment an actual civil war, much like a wounded, dying dragon would thrash its scaly tail in insane rage. His actions resemble the upside-down logic of a field leader in Viet Nam ordering a village destroyed in “order to save it.”

And his stooges, flunkies, sycophants, and co-conspirators fall over themselves to kiss his shit-stained ass! Happily they murder dreams, tread on the seeds of the future! Onward to the murikkkan nightmare, heil the golden gob of spit, onward to the stench of the fourth reich!

What do they get from the trough the head hog now controls? Position, power, privilege. And shit stained faces.

Once upon a time I predicted that in the future all an ordinary individual could control would be their immediate environment. But now, I wonder if even that option will be gone in the strange new world being shoveled into our brains.

Note: Today, April 10, 2026, it is not merely a civil war that the crazed gilded gaffe is pushing, it’s the whole world! He has adopted the word “Christian” as a political tool that now is a virtual synonym for ‘nazi’ with the promise of Rapture and good times for the good white guys and Armageddon for the rest of us.

Parables:

Here are a couple of Reminiscences from my hometown, Taos, New Mexico. Both of the men I write about have given me their permission to post the stories. I love them both.

A Fellow Whose Name is Mudd

He was not the first rich man who tried to buy the town and therefore not the first who failed. Like the others he wanted not just the buildings and history but the soul of it, and that evaded them all. At least until the 21st century.

There was nothing wrong with Harvey Mudd’s heart, morally, at least, and he did want to do good things for the place. It was a heady time to try to do things, good and bad, as the seismic changes of the 60’s and 70’s affecting the world at the time certainly were being felt in Taos.

He came from a class of people who can be depicted as the elite denizens of The Gilded Age in America, people in The Blue Book. His grandfather, Harvey Mudd the first, had made a fortune mining in Cypress after clues in ancient documents led him to discover what may have been one of King Solomon’s forgotten holdings.

At any rate, the family was part of the West Coast Elite that included the Doheny’s, the Huntington’s and a few robber barons gone ‘respectable’.

After reading Harvey’s autobiography, Leaving My Self Behind, I observed that he was probably considered the black sheep of the family and it seemed that the late 60’s and early 70’s were meant for him.

And New Mexico. He bought acreage in Arroyo Hondo, among other properties, and half of the southside of Taos Plaza which included the town’s old movie theater. He envisioned an entertainment complex of two film theaters and a lounge bar to begin. The structure consisted of two stories and a large basement with old tunnels that apparently ran through various parts of the town.

The set up that Harvey wanted for the theaters required a special lens for the projector, a costly, custom-made lens. The idea for it hung in the air, never resolved.

The ground theater did open and next to that entrance was another that led to a windowless basement bar and lounge named, of course, The Sunshine Company.

Harvey was a busy fellow with many projects in mind all at once, including funding a non-profit conservancy group. Being part of the activist group put him at odds with some state political heavyweights as well as “the Mafia”, an opportunistic development bunch that recognizes no boundaries.

That mattered when The Sunshine Company’s liquor license was put in jeopardy by a couple of underage ‘plants’ installed by somebody that wanted to send a message.

The bar by then had become a happening place. I had left Lama and the life in the mountains and needed work. I had tended bar at another place and learned some tricks of the trade so I applied at The Sunshine Company.

It turned out that the guy who was the manager of the place was named Marshall Applewhite. I don’t remember him at all, strangely enough, but he was the bar manager when I was hired. Strange because years later he became infamous for leading a bunch of folks to commit suicide, thinking they would be welcomed aboard a Mother Ship trailing Comet Hale-Bopp.

Not long after I started as one of four or five bartenders, I walked in to work and John Gale, Harvey’s general manager, tossed a scrum of keys to me. “Well, you’re the boss now.”

Applewhite had apparently met his star partner who convinced him he was Jesus reincarnated and off he slipped to find gullible flocks.

Well, now I am running an underground tavern that was thirty thousand dollars in debt and a rowdy hangout for hippies, mountain men and the flotsam and jetsam of a society in near chaos.

I finally met the Boss when a notice from the state landed saying that the bar had been given a summons for selling to underage people. The transgression had happened before I arrived and it was a cause for concern as the liquor license, a very valuable instrument, could be revoked.

There was a hurried meeting in the upstairs offices and I was asked to attend. John Gale, Jim Levy, Harvey, and a couple of admin ladies were discussing the dilemma when I entered.

I listened for a few minutes, learning that Harvey had raised the ire of the state attorney general for being an obstacle to ‘progress’. The AG, David Norvell, seemed to have a personal grudge against Harvey, maybe because of Harvey’s privileged birth.

Attacking him for a license violation would be a blow to Harvey’s current and future business plans.

Somehow intuitively understanding the politics of the situation I asked who insured Harvey’s interests, personal and business. It was a firm in Santa Fe.

Then I suggested we go see CB Trujillo, a local man who was a long serving state senator and coincidentally a State Farm Insurance representative.

CB had become a powerful force in state politics over the years and was friends with people in high places, of course.

I accompanied Harvey to CB’s office in Taos and let the senator know that Harvey wanted to entrust his insurance portfolio to someone local. CB asked what he wanted to insure and Harvey said, “Everything.”

I was surprised and, in my mind, tried to calculate what such a deal was worth to CB, and I could see that the senator was thinking about it, too.

Papers were shuffled, read, signed, and paid for. After that business I mentioned to CB that a matter was pending in a state office in a few days and suggested that Harvey meet privately with him to explain ‘the situation’. He agreed.

On the way back to the plaza Harvey told me that we would meet CB in Santa Fe on the day of the scheduled hearing.

We showed up at the at the hearing chambers and met CB in the reception area. He greeted us amiably and asked us to sit tight while he went in to speak with somebody.

It did not take long, maybe five minutes, and CB walked out, shook Harvey’s hand and said, “It’s taken care of.”

We never saw the person who would have sat in judgement, and Harvey had no further problems with the liquor inspectors. Politics.

Speaking of politics, that did not end Harvey’s problems with powerful forces in New Mexico as he was heavily involved in environmental issues as the head of Santa Fe based The Clearing House, which funded a variety of related groups and causes.

He talks about confrontations with opposing forces in his memoir. It is quite incisive and has some very interesting thoughts regarding the dichotomy of his privileged heritage and the understanding that it was probably to blame for the environmental crisis which he now fights against.

His analysis of United States history is unflinching in describing the worst machinations of its growth and motives. While he describes it from the point of view of his background, I do note that the history of my own cultural roots had not so much different motives, just not as technologically advanced in the arts of war and weaponry, deception, and exploitation.

Thinking about those roots the main difference is that we (Spaniards) really believed our shit, the religious stuff within which we had to have doctrine to justify our havoc while the Anglo-Saxons were rationalists and could lie and deceive without the fear of a vengeful deity.

Harvey remains active as a poet and writer, splitting his time between homes in New England and France. His Substack gives voice to his astute observation of current events.

El Comanche – License to Steal!

Mr. Flores looked like a character on tv way back named George Gobel, a meek, stuttering, flat-topped comedian that you couldn’t help but like. His wife looked exactly like someone you’d expect his wife to look like, a kind granny or auntie.

They had a drive-in restaurant that served the choicest burgers and fries in town and I occasionally stopped in for the treats.

So, I’m there in my car and El Comanche came up, said, “Hey”, and climbed into the passenger seat. El Comanche is Francisco Gonzales, an old family friend who is known by the nickname as his lineage runs to people captured and adopted by the mighty Comanche tribe. He and his extended family still carry on the traditional dances, songs and costumes of their forefathers.

He had been elected to be County Clerk and was a bit anxious, it seemed, as if he needed to get something off his chest.

And he did.

“Man, I just talked to the FBI,” he began, “See, some people in the Treasurer’s office stole money and it pissed me off that they’re crooks.”

“Wow,” I said, “how much?”

“That’s the thing, it’s like ten thousand dollars but when I told the feds they said they couldn’t bother with it because it would cost too much to prosecute, unless it was over a hundred thousand,” he explained. “They’re letting them steal!”

He seemed at that moment to be in as much disbelief as me, but he worked in the county offices and saw what was happening. A license to steal. What a freakin’ deal.

Next thing I hear, Comanche is running for the state legislature – and wins. Again, however, he runs into the reality of politics. He is a staunch advocate for the rights of the local folks, a defender of traditions, a true man of the people. And that put him at odds with the power boyz, those in the legislature and those who run it.

So they ‘set him up’ and managed to cold bloodedly evict him from the legislature.

He returned to the town he loved - and that loved him- and built up a small business carving headstones, most of the time for people he knew.

He’s ninety now, still vividly present, one of the few left who have seen the old ways melt away before the onslaught of money and “progress”. But still on certain ceremonial days he will be out at the Ranchos church on his drum, vocalizing songs from days past, his extended family in their feathers and rattles, a tradition of the blood that honors the once mighty Comanche Nation.

---

Don Quijote still seeking: Icarus, "The flight was great. It was the landing that was a bear!"

---

Okey dokey. Thanks for the peek. Have a fantastic week!

Reggie Cantù